


The Bunker Diaries

by infernalandmortal



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5102372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernalandmortal/pseuds/infernalandmortal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of drabbles about our two favorite outcasts hanging out in an abandoned bunker.<br/>(A.k.a. In which Amanda diverges from canon and even though S3 and S4 have blown this out of the water, she's writing this anyway)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Safe. Warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Taken from the prompt: “Imagine your ship sharing a bed: no kissing, no sex, no words.”

He’s softer than Emori thought.

Not that she spent a lot of time thinking about it, mind you, but when her head was resting on his shoulder and her arm was flung over his stomach, it rises to the forefront of her brain that he wasn’t as scrawny as she imagined.  Granted, she could feel his ribs under his skin, unyielding ridges that marked months of malnourishment, but - try as he might - there was almost nothing hardened about him.

His long fingers start carding through her hair as his breathing makes her head rise and fall gently.  His eyes are half-lidded, staring up at the ceiling while his mind is a million miles away.  She considers asking him what he’s thinking but she knows he won’t answer.  At least he’s probably not thinking about something horrible, judging by how relaxed his muscles are and how easily he’s playing with her hair.  His touch is rare and Emori drinks up every bit of it she gets.

She turns her head and brushes her lips across the skin of his neck, smiling slightly when he swallows in response and blushing when he presses a kiss to the top of her head.  He makes a disgruntled noise when she scoots up only to grin when her lips press against his.  She slides back down and cuddles in close, sighing contentedly as the hum of the bunker’s generators lulls her to sleep.

* * *

 

In the middle of the night, Murphy wakes up.  She’s still sleeping on his shoulder, the blankets bunched over her legs, the hem of her shirt riding up to reveal scarred, dark skin.  He shifts slightly and she makes a low noise in the back of her throat before rolling onto her back, her right hand reaching up and grabbing onto the pillowcase.  He notices that it’s been a habit of hers to always cling to something in her sleep.  It makes something in his chest ache.

He props himself on one elbow and traces his eyes over her face, which is softer now that she’s sleeping.  There are lines around her eyes from years of squinting into the sun and a few around her mouth as well from smiling.  The scar on her right cheek is livid in the half-light; Murphy fights the urge to run the pad of his thumb over the rough skin.  She had told him it was an accident, that there had been a fight between her and another Grounder  that ended in her rolling down a hill and cutting her face open on a stone.  She had still won, of course, but the scar remained as a reminder of what it cost to want to belong.

It idly occurs to him that he doesn’t know how she learned English.  He’d have to ask her sometime.

She moves fitfully and Murphy shushes her until she stills again, her head turned towards him, her body remaining flat on her back.  Her hand - so small compared to his - releases the pillow and reaches out toward him, only stopping the subconscious movement when she grabs his shirt.  Murphy smiles and lays down again, pulling her onto his chest and drifting off again.


	2. Teach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She thinks for a moment, licking her lips. “Yu en ai ste splita.”
> 
> “It actually sounds a lot like English...sometimes.” Murphy thinks for a moment before translating, “you and I… what?”
> 
> “You and I are outcasts.” Emori traces a scar on her right hand.
> 
> “I can live with that.” Murphy fights the urge to push her hair away from her face. “Teach me something else,” he says in a bid to take the darkness out of her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your sweet comments and/or kudos. It seriously makes my day whenever I get that little Ao3 notification email. Y'all rock my socks!  
> Sidenote: all the Trigedasleng phrases are ones I've pieced together from various resources. To the best of my knowledge, they are correct, but please tell me if I'm wrong!

“What do they call you, anyway?” Murphy asks one day as Emori’s peering outside at the strange coastal storm that made landfall near their lighthouse.

“What do you mean?” Her voice is far away.

“What do they call people in the Dead Zone?” Murphy gently tugs her back inside.  She turns toward him, part of her face damp from the rain.

“ _Ai laik Emori kom Sanskavakru.”_ Her words roll off her tongue.

“Sanskavakru.” Murphy repeats the word.  Emori laughs.  “What?”

“Your pronounciation…” She laughs again, softly this time.  “Anyway, if we were just talking about me, it would be _sanskava._ ”  She thinks for a moment, licking her lips.  “ _Yu en ai ste splita.”_

“It actually sounds a lot like English...sometimes.” Murphy thinks for a moment before translating, “you and I… what?”

“You and I are outcasts.” Emori traces a scar on her right hand.

“I can live with that.” Murphy fights the urge to push her hair away from her face.  “Teach me something else,” he says in a bid to take the darkness out of her eyes.

 _“Ai gaf in gyon au set en rein._ ” She says, a grin on her face.  “I want to go stand in the rain.”

“How do you say ‘not on your life’?” Murphy asks.  She laughs.

 

He looks for her later and finds her standing near the lighthouse’s window, her right hand pressed against the glass.  “There’s so much water,” she says in awe.  “I keep wondering if it’ll run out.”  She shrugs and something stabs Murphy’s heart as he realizes just how precious water used to be to her.

He plays with the ends of her long hair, still damp from her run in the rain.  She’s wearing a long shirt that brushes the back of her knees and her torn-up pants.  The grey light from the window casts a strange pallow over her skin that traces the proud arch of her forehead and the line of her mouth.  Murphy’s mouth dries out as he keeps looking at her face, unashamedly watching, silently cataloguing.

She steps forward and to the side so her back is up against his chest.  She leans back, her head resting on his chest, and his arms instinctively wrap around her shoulders. “ _Mebi ai hod u in,”_ she whispers under her breath, her hand wrapping gently around his wrist.

She doesn’t translate and he doesn’t ask but from then on, something changes in a pleasant way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((The last phrase Emori says is 'maybe I love you'. Just in case you were wondering.))  
> Come visit me on Tumblr (same username as on here) and leave me thoughts or even drabble requests in the comments!


	3. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It's what they think I deserve.”
> 
> “For existing? Screw them.”
> 
> “It doesn’t matter.”
> 
> “It matters to me. Don’t let anyone hurt you like that again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really short but I didn't really want to continue it because the ending seemed perfect to me... Let me know what you think and/or leave me prompts or ideas!

By now, hardly anything about him surprises her.  She’s used to his angry outbursts, his screaming nightmares, and his silent spells.  She’s come to expect the way he moves, the awkward way he talks when he’s nervous.  She’s familiar with his touch, his rare smile, and his hopeless sense of humor.

But she wasn’t prepared for his reaction when he saw her scars.

They were long and ugly, slashing across the bare skin of her back from the middle of her shoulder blade to the bottom of her ribcage.  They pulled when she stretched and puckered angrily under her fingertips.  John was never supposed to see them - no one was - and yet here he was, his mouth slightly open as she turns to face him, her arms crossed self-consciously over her chest.

“Emori, what-” He takes a half-step forward, wincing when Emori turns her face away.  She wants to scream or punch something at this point because tears are prickling behind her eyes and he’s still looking at her.

“Get out,” she grinds out through gritted teeth, her voice catching in her throat.  

She hears his bare feet pad across the room, feels his gentle hand on her bare shoulder, right above the scars.  “You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers.

She lifts her head and turns to face him, firming her jaw and hardening her eyes.  “It’s nothing.” She steps away and waits until he leaves before biting down hard on her arm and letting out a choked almost-scream.

* * *

He doesn’t comment on the marks on her arm; he doesn’t say much of anything for the rest of the day. There’s a storm behind his eyes and anger in hers but neither of them bring it up until John undresses for bed that night.  Normally he goes into another room or she turns her back but there’s something in his stance and in his eyes that makes her stay and watch.

“Grounders,” he says by way of explanation, gesturing to the knife scars on his bare torso.  They gleam red and angry in the light.  “They tortured me.”

Emori’s mouth opens slightly, her breath coming out in a soft ‘oh’.  There’s a brief moment when she wants to reach out and touch him, but she holds herself back.  “Do they still hurt?”

“Sometimes.” He touches one tentatively.  “They pull when I stretch.”

“Mine do, too.” There’s a vulnerability in her voice that she despises but allows. There's a pause, during which she curses the knot in her stomach. _I don't care what he thinks._

Only, she does.

“I snuck into the woods,” she tells him, her voice low. “I wanted to see something other than the desert. There was a village nearby; some of their scouts saw me.  They caught me, whipped me with a chain.”

John’s eyes darken and his fists clench. “They shouldn't have done that.”

Emori shrugs. Suddenly it hurts to breathe. “It's what they think I deserve.”

“For existing?” His voice is unreadable. He swears under his breath. “Screw them.”

Tension uncoils in her lungs.  “It doesn’t matter.”

He crosses the room and touches her back with a light hand.  “It matters to me.  Don’t let anyone hurt you like that again.”

She looks up at him, at his earnest eyes and set mouth, and rests her hand on his wrist.  He flinches slightly, takes in a shuddering breath.  “I won’t.”

 

 


	4. Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is it?” His voice is low with sleep and it rumbles over her spine
> 
> “A dream,” she answers shortly, gagging quietly and turning her head toward him. John props his hand under his head and regards her, questions glinting in his otherwise-unreadable eyes. “That’s all,” she says, slightly harsher.
> 
> But John doesn’t move. “Tell me about it.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello I'm back with another little thing (drabble? short oneshot? piece of pain?)  
> Please forgive me if this is not as good - I'm currently a little ill so my brain is not what it used to be. :(  
> ALSO, if you've seen the season 3 trailer, please hit me up and come scream with me!

_There’s blood everywhere, slipping under her unsteady feet, filling her lungs and pores and nose. She can’t breathe. It hurts._

_She hears crying and turns around; there’s a body shuddering, coughing out gore, choking on even more. They call to her, always in a broken voice and she’s too late, always too late, and they die and she dies and the entire world turns to ash._

* * *

 

Emori wakes up crying.

She's had this same nightmare for almost ten years: bloody, gorey, terrifying scenes of death and war and destruction. It used to be Otan’s body staining the sand red, then it was no one’s for a while. Now it's John’s and her heart can’t help but fly up into her throat every time she wakes up, even as she leans over her side of the bed and involuntarily attempts to retch out the offending organ. And every time, John stirs but doesn’t wake and she stuffs her fist in her mouth to swallow her cries.

This time, it’s different. This time, he rolls over and rests a shy hand on her lower back as she shudders and tries not to sob. “What is it?” His voice is low with sleep and it rumbles over her spine

“A dream,” she answers shortly, gagging quietly and turning her head toward him. John props his hand under his head and regards her, questions glinting in his otherwise-unreadable eyes. “That’s all,” she says, slightly harsher.

But John doesn’t move. “Tell me about it.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

A lump rises in her throat and her heart races faster as the images play again in her mind. “It’s always death. Someone’s bleeding to death and I can’t save them.” Her voice cracks. She falls silent.

John twists some of her hair around his finger. “Does the person have a face?”

_Yours_. She turns her face away. “No.” The lie tastes awkward on her tongue and she can tell John doesn’t believe her.

He flops down on his back and extended his arm towards her. “Cm’ere.” Inch by inch, she approaches until her head rests on his shoulder, her face still turned away from his. Her head moves with his breath and she can hear the thrumming of his heart. His fingers still card through her hair and for a moment, she thinks she might be able to fall asleep.

“I shot someone,” he murmurs. She turns her face towards him and tries not to think about how close her nose is to his cheek. “I didn’t mean to shoot her, but I did. She doesn’t walk right anymore. I have nightmares about it sometimes.”

“Oh.” Emori takes a deep breath, buries her face in his shirt for one half-second.

“You know what’s funny?” His voice takes on that self-loathing bite that makes Emori want to shake him until all of his demons come out. “She didn’t blame me. She could have - could've gotten me locked up or worse - but she didn’t. All she said was, ‘I got shot’.” He laughs mirthlessly.

“Why?” His shrug moves her head. “There was a reason.”

“Who knows. Who cares?” He lapses into bitter silence.

Emori sighs and her breath tickles his neck. “It’s you. In my dream, you’re the one dying.” Murphy doesn’t speak for a moment, his mind stuck on the fact that she’s troubled by the image of him dying. _She’s probably the only one_.

He doesn’t bother saying that he won’t die - he won’t lie to her and she wouldn’t believe him anyway - but he wraps his arms around her slender torso and squeezes gently. She sighs against his skin and he shivers. Somewhere above them, the wind howls. Murphy falls asleep to the sound of Emori’s shallow breaths. She doesn’t close her eyes all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and reviews make me extremely happy (as do requests).
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr: http://infernalandmortal.tumblr.com


	5. Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John,” she asks again, taking the thing out of his hand before he has time to react, “what is this?”
> 
> “It’s a gun. It's dangerous. Give it back.” He makes a grab for it. She steps back, accidentally nudging something with her thigh that clicks resoundingly into place. “Emori, I'm serious.”
> 
> “If it's so dangerous, why do you want it? You should lock it away.” She feels a smooth metal crescent that fits her finger perfectly. She slides it in there and John flinches slightly. “Can it kill?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by painful gifs I saw on Tumblr of Murphy staring at that gun in the bunker. My heart hurts for my trash son...
> 
> There are 2 uses of a swear word in this chapter, just fyi (nothing explicit, don't worry).
> 
> As I've said before, this is a collection of stories in no particular order. That being said, in this one, we're backtracking all the way back to Emori's arrival at the bunker.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Emori finds John, she’s met with a metal door.  Then she knocks and is greeted by blaring music, the smell of alcohol, and a bewildered and nonplussed teenager.  He rolls his eyes at her and tells her that she gave him terrible directions.  She retaliates that he should have kept going farther than this “hole in the ground”.

“It’s called a bunker, genius,” he snaps, but there’s no real venom in his words.

For some reason, after a healthy dose of sarcasm and mistrust, he lets her inside.  In her opinion, he shouldn’t have - she did rob his companions and then punch him into unconsciousness - but she’s not entirely upset at his lack of judgement.

“You can stay. For now.” He tells her grudgingly before wandering elsewhere in the underground sanctum.  She thinks for a moment that she’s unwelcome, wonders why she cares, and then goes exploring.

* * *

 

That night, he sleeps on the couch, letting her have the single bed - a chivalrous gesture that both touches and discomforts her - and telling her gruffly that there's a lock on the bedroom door if she wants to use it. Privacy is a strange concept to her and it’s obvious that courtesy is equally odd to him.  Still, she enjoys undressing without having to cover herself between layers of clothes and caked dirt.

In the middle of the night, she pads out into the living space and sees John on his stomach on the couch, eyeing a piece of metal that rests on the low table in front of him. A small bit of light glints off the shiny material. Emori doesn't know what it is but it looks dangerous and she doesn't like how John regards it.

“Go back to bed, Emori.” He says without lifting his head or turning towards her.  “I’m not going to kill you in your sleep or anything.”

“I know. I didn’t think you would.”

He shifts.  “Oh.”

She smiles softly at the back of his head and makes sure not to lock her bedroom door when she goes back inside.

* * *

 

She leaves for the morning to explore the surrounding beaches (ignoring John’s comments that there's nothing but sand and salt water to be found) and comes back to blaring music that sounds more like noise. John’s sitting where she left him (still on his stomach, snoring softly) but that metal object is in his hand and he's looking at it like it has the answer to something he desperately wants.

“What is that?” She asks, turning off his awful music and standing in front of him.

“I'm surprised you came back.  Again.” He comments. Emori has to smile at his terrible avoidance technique.  He looks up at her and his eyes are bloodshot.  She bites back a wince.

“John,” she asks again, taking the thing out of his hand before he has time to react, “what is this?”

“It’s a gun. It's dangerous. Give it back.” He makes a grab for it. She steps back, accidentally nudging something with her thigh that clicks resoundingly into place. “Emori, I'm serious.”

“If it's so dangerous, why do you want it? You should lock it away.” She feels a smooth metal crescent that fits her finger perfectly. She slides it in there and John flinches slightly. “Can it kill?”

“Yeah, and it's gonna kill you if you don't put it down!” He stands and for a moment, when she’s looking up at him and he’s angry, Emori is afraid.

“Were you going to use it on yourself?” She asks and knows by the veiled look in his eyes that she'd guessed correctly.

She turns, squeezes the gun, and shouts when a loud bang shakes her entire arm and made her ears buzz. John vaults the table and grabs it from her hand. “Why the hell would you take the hammer off? What do you think you're doing? Do you want to get us killed?” He shouts, tucking it into his waistband.  “I’m never leaving the safety off again,” he mutters to himself sarcastically.

Emori reaches around him and plucks it out of his pants, racing for the door and running all the way to the sea, where she flings it into the calm waters. “Again I say: what the hell?” John pants, catching up to her.

“I won't let you kill yourself.” She says quietly, turning away from him and walking back toward the bunker. She's surprised to hear John’s footsteps behind her.

“What if I use a knife?” He asks. There's something in his voice that tells her he's testing her, if only by half. He's pushing to see how far she'll go.

“I'll take that too,” she tells him, still walking.  “And anything else you try to use.”  She feels suddenly protective of this angry, lost, broken boy who followed her directions but didn’t go quite far enough.

“Good to know.” She doesn’t turn around but she knows he’s grinning, albeit self-deprecatingly.  “Didn’t think you cared much.” He jogs ahead of her as they reach the bunker and holds the door open for her.  In that instant, she knows she’ll be allowed to stay indefinitely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos are fabulous - it makes me so happy to hear what you have to say about these little things!
> 
> Of course, you can always find me on Tumblr [here](http://infernalandmortal.tumblr.com) and we can talk about The 100, OTPs, poetry, or anything else!


	6. Shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You realize that's one of mine, right?” He asks from his curled-up position on the couch.
> 
> Emori raises an eyebrow at him. “And?” She turns just in time to see his face turn a pretty shade of red before he buries it in the yellow blanket. He mumbles a ‘never-mind’ into the fleece. “Do you want it back?”
> 
> John shrugs and Emori has to smile at how boyish he looks with just his eyes peering out at her. “It looks better on you,” he says softly, his cheeks coloring again as he noticed that her legs were bare under the long shirt.
> 
> It was Emori's turn to blush as she saw John’s gaze on her body and she finally understood why he was staring. “You find this attractive, don't you?” The way he sank his teeth into his lower lip answered that question for her. “Why?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO this little collection is officially deemed canon-divergent because season 3 blew every part of this out of the water but I'm continuing this anyway because it seems to be enjoyable to people which is awesome!
> 
> As always, if you have a prompt for me or something, please let me know!
> 
> Enjoy!

Emori doesn't understand why John is staring at her until he makes a remark about her shirt.

It's actually one of his - or rather, one of the shirts left in the bunker that he claimed as his - and it's long and soft and warm and Emori enjoys the sleeves that bell out well past her hands. She also enjoys how John looks in this particular shirt, but she's keeping that memory to herself.

“You realize that's one of mine, right?” He asks from his curled-up position on the couch.

Emori raises an eyebrow at him. “And?” She turns just in time to see his face turn a pretty shade of red before he buries it in the yellow blanket. He mumbles a ‘never-mind’ into the fleece. “Do you want it back?”

John shrugs and Emori has to smile at how boyish he looks with just his eyes peering out at her. “It looks better on you,” he says softly, his cheeks coloring again as he noticed that her legs were bare under the long shirt.

It was Emori's turn to blush as she saw John’s gaze on her body and she finally understood why he was staring. “You find this attractive, don't you?” The way he sank his teeth into his lower lip answered that question for her. “Why?” She suddenly becomes concious of her flaws. Every scar on her skin seems to heat from the inside; her left hand feels like a ten-ton weight on her arm and she can't fight the sudden desire to hide.

John sits up, his eyes trained on her face. “You're beautiful.” He says it like he's said any number of things before and it makes Emori's lips tremble. “I mean,” he scoffs, “look at you. Do you know how many girls on the Ark would have killed to look like you?” His lips curl up slightly. “Except maybe for the tattoo. They aren't badass enough for that.”

Emori wants to hug him in that moment as the burning of her scars fade but she knows that will make him flinch. She settles for sitting next to him and closing her eyes against his warm shoulder.

* * *

 

Murphy feels her breathing slow and takes a moment to marvel at how Emori can sleep anytime and anywhere, as long as there’s somewhere to rest her head.  Her right hand clenches around the hem of his shirt.  He gently runs his hand over her knuckles and wonders if there’s a part of her that isn’t scarred.

His face flushes for the third time as his gaze subconsciously flits to her bared legs.  He knows he should feel honored that she feels comfortable enough to be so exposed - and he does - but he also feels something else, something vaguely frightening that curls in his stomach and at the base of his stomach.  She’s beautiful and he knows it and sometimes that realization threatens to choke him.

He grins suddenly when she nuzzles into his chest in an affectionate way she’d never use when she was awake.  The arch of the tattoo on her face and the fall of shadows against her cheekbones makes her look worlds younger than when she’s awake and fighting tooth and nail for the survival of whatever she believes in.

He remembers when she took him out into the tall grasses near the lighthouse and taught him how to creep stealthily through the brush without making a sound.  Her light feet and careful hands were such a curious thing against the backdrop of the violent wilderness she’d spent her whole life weathering.  She had told him that she and her brother used to steal tech.  She hadn’t said why but the way her voice had tripped over her brother’s name led him to not ask questions.

Emori shifts and slides down so her head is in Murphy’s lap and he nearly audibly gulps because her shirt is riding up so far and she’s not wearing anything underneath and there’s so much skin on display that it makes his skin prickle.  So he does something really stupid and tries to pull the hem down without waking her.  It doesn’t work, of course - she wakes and looks questioningly at first his hand on her thigh and then at his face.  He doesn’t even want to know how flushed his cheeks are at this point.

“When I told you to keep an eye on me,” she starts, her voice full of mischief, “I didn’t mean your hands should come with.”

He begins an apology and she rests a hand on her arm to let him know she was joking.  “I’ll be right back.” She stands, pulls down his shirt, and goes to get changed, leaving her warmth behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kudos and reviews and love - it makes me so happy to see that you guys enjoy these little snippets!


	7. Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s your bed too,” she points out casually but shifts into an upright position and slouches off, looking behind her expectantly.
> 
> Murphy follows her, crawling under the covers and allowing her to curl into his side. Her arm is tossed carelessly over his torso and her head is snuggled under his chin and for a moment Murphy pretends that she loves him back.
> 
> “Goodnight, Mori,” he murmurs. She lifts her head and looks at him, reaching up and running her right hand through his tangled hair. Her fingers still tremble, remnants of the aftershocks of her nightmare. “What?” Her brown eyes hold his fast and he never wants to look away.
> 
> “You can hate me after this,” she whispers before leaning up and pressing her lips gently against his. It’s half of a second before she’s back against his chest, her face out of his view, her hand clenched in a tight fist. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure that you know by the title of this chapter what this little installment will contain so READ ON AND ENJOY also can we pls talk about the ONSCREEN KISS IN LAST WEEK'S EPISODE I'm dead honestly
> 
> Enjoy!

He decides that, if he dies, it’s going to be Emori that does him in.

It’s been two months now since she found him and a month and twenty-five days since he told her she could stay as long as she wanted.  She’s been there ever since, a warm and loving and curious presence that has ended up sleeping in bed with him and stealing food off his plate and finding different ways to make him laugh even when he’s drowning in his own mind.  When he tells her of his sins, she shrugs a  _ so what  _ and takes his hand.  When he tries to drive her away, she asks why and won’t let him get up until he explains.  

More often than not, he finds himself looking at her the way he knows Bellamy used to look at Clarke, the way his father used to look at his mother, and he thinks  _ oh shit, I’m in love. _

She knows and he knows that she does and it becomes this unspoken thing between them that she’ll kiss his cheek and hold his hand and he’ll play with her hair and run his fingers over the sensitive space above her collarbone while they lay shoulder-to-shoulder but they’ll never admit their feelings for one another (even though he hears her murmur  _ ai hod yu in  _ to him under her breath and he can’t bring himself to tell her that he knows what it means because it scares him).

So he plays the avoiding game because he’s a coward and he can’t face the way she looks at him with such love in her eyes and he doesn’t want to consider the warmth of her smile when sent in his direction like it always is.  Unfortunately, he can’t avoid her forever and when she wakes up in the middle of the night with a nightmare, he carries her out of the bedroom without hesitation, letting her curl up next to him and bury her face in his shoulder until she shudders twice and can breathe again.  As soon as she turns her red eyes in his direction, he gives up on killing his love for her.  He’s gone for this faithless, loving, scavenger girl and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

She rests her head on his shoulder, running her right hand through her knotted hair.  Her breath tickles his cheek as she turns her head, her nose brushing the side of his neck. “You’re warm,” she hums, sighing and snuggling against him.  He swallows, knowing she can feel the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, knowing that she’ll probably tease him for it later.

He looks down at her as best as he’s able with her head cradled securely on his shoulder.  “You should go back to sleep.”

She closes her eyes and says a soft “okay” and it’s a moment before Murphy realizes that she intends to sleep on him which would be nice if it weren’t for the fact that his heart refuses to calm down every time her lips inch a bit too close to his skin.   _ I love you.   _ The words get stuck in his throat and he fights back the urge to curse.   _ I don’t deserve you,  _ he wants to tell her.   _ I don’t deserve you, or your trust, or this - any of this - and you should get as far away from me as you can before I get you killed. _

“I meant sleep in your bed,” he says instead, pointing to the nest of messy blankets atop a mattress that once resembled something bed-like.

“It’s your bed too,” she points out casually but shifts into an upright position and slouches off, looking behind her expectantly.

Murphy follows her, crawling under the covers and allowing her to curl into his side. Her arm is tossed carelessly over his torso and her head is snuggled under his chin and for a moment Murphy pretends that she loves him back.

“Goodnight, Mori,” he murmurs.  She lifts her head and looks at him, reaching up and running her right hand through his tangled hair.  Her fingers still tremble, remnants of the aftershocks of her nightmare.  “What?”  Her brown eyes hold his fast and he never wants to look away.

“You can hate me after this,” she whispers before leaning up and pressing her lips gently against his.  It’s half of a second before she’s back against his chest, her face out of his view, her hand clenched in a tight fist.  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Murphy clears his throat, then clears it again.  His lips tingle; her skin burns under his fingertips.  “Don’t be sorry.”

“What?” Her head moves a fraction of an inch and Murphy suddenly grins, his heart swelling and swelling until he thought it would burst unless he laughed or cried or did  _ something _ because he felt it he  _ felt  _ her touch and it didn’t scare him.  “John?”

* * *

If John didn’t say something soon, Emori was going to deck him. The silence after her action was already deafening but not loud enough to drown out her thoughts of  _ stupid stupid stupid girl why would he want you he doesn't love you you've imagined all of this. _

In the midst of her worries, he moves suddenly, turning to his side and propping himself on an elbow so Emori’s head was resting on the pillow and not on his chest.  She misses his warmth at once.

“I really want to kiss you.” His voice is wrecked, the admission tearing out of his throat, laid out for her atop the miles and the millimeters that separate them. The pad of his thumb caresses her cheek so softly that all she can do is swallow and nod and reach up to cup the back of his head and draw his lips to hers.

She breathes him in, gently letting him lead the kiss.  He tastes like safety.  He’s warm, burning through her insecurities and her fears and every ugly thing she sees in herself because  _ he doesn’t  _ and when they break apart, he's smiling and she's laughing and he buries his face in the crook of her shoulder while she winds her fingers through his hair and gently tugs on the strands. “I know you know I love you,” she whispers and she feels his entire body shudder.

They fall asleep like that and, when the morning comes, he kisses her awake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so so much for all your amazing reviews. They really make my day. <3 See you guys soon!


	8. Insecure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you okay?” he asks and his gaze is heavy and she can’t meet his eyes and her legs are still bare and her tongue is heavy in her mouth and her self-hatred is creeping out from every dark corner of her mind and- “Emori, what is it?”
> 
> “I’m not beautiful.” The three ugly words hang in the air. She turns to face him. He looks stunned. She tucks her uncovered left hand behind her back and fixes her eyes on the worn floor. “I’m not,” she whispers as some small defense against the insecure coward she knows John must think she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter prompt: "I want to kiss you in places you're insecure about."  
> There's some making out in this chapter so ENJOYYYY

The sun hurts her eyes.

She’s fallen asleep on the couch and John’s left the bunker door open, probably so she would know where he’d gone when she woke up.  A breeze comes through and rustles her hair.  She smiles, squints, lets the blanket fall from her bare shoulders. Then she flinches, remembering just how much skin was showing last night, how much skin is showing and she covers her scarred stomach with both arms while she tries to find something long and loose to cover her.   _ Now you’ve done it,  _ she scolds herself. _ He’s never going to see anything he loves in you. _

“I’m missing the view?” John asks, knocking sand off his boots and shutting the door. Emori’s face, covered by a curtain of her hair, turns red.  She pulls a shirt over her shoulders and turns. His face darkens. He steps behind her.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She runs her fingers through her hair.  They tangle on a snarl.

She feels him brush a palm over her shoulder before reaching up and untangling it and she fights the urge to lean into his warmth. “I had fun last night,” he whispers softly, kissing her cloth-covered shoulder.

She wraps her arms around her torso again. “Me too.” Her voice is low. It rattles her bones.

“Are you okay?” he asks and his gaze is heavy and she can’t meet his eyes and her legs are still bare and her tongue is heavy in her mouth and her self-hatred is creeping out from every dark corner of her mind and- “Emori, what is it?”

“I’m not beautiful.” The three ugly words hang in the air.  She turns to face him. He looks stunned.  She tucks her uncovered left hand behind her back ( _ disgusting worthless stain)  _ and fixes her eyes on the worn floor.  “I’m not,” she whispers as some small defense against the insecure coward she knows John must think she is. 

“Liar.” His voice is decisive. He reaches behind her, takes her bad hand, and runs his fingers over the skin, keeping his eyes on hers as he lifts it and presses kisses over the gnarled bones and wrecked fingers. His lips travel over her palm to her wrist and he stays there for a moment, nuzzling at the thick red scars that rest there like a horrifying bracelet. A question rises in his dark blue eyes and she suddenly wants to tell him the story of a broken and angry fourteen-year-old girl who, in a fit of self-loathing and hatred, took a knife to the part of her she despised the most as if she could actually cut it away.

(That little girl still lives inside of her. She scrabbles within Emori’s brain, pushing and pulling and reminding her that she’ll never be anything but unwantable, unlovable, undesirable.)

She opens her mouth to say something, to start an explanation, but all that escapes is some kind of crooked sigh when John’s teeth lightly scrape over the scars, over the veins underneath her skin. “You're beautiful,” he murmurs and his voice is gravel spilling down her spine. She shakes her head minutely and he, gritting out an exasperated groan, surges up to capture her lips in his.

They've kissed before, disrobed one another before, but never like this, never in broad daylight and never when Emori’s hands are shaking and John is the most confident of the two of them (because usually it's the other way around but this time Emori’s trying not to drown in the gentle but needy way he's devouring her with his eyes and lips and hands). They're still standing, her shirt on the floor, his hands on her waist and his fingers bruising her hipbones as he pulls her closer and closer. The fingers on her good hand knot in the fabric of his shirt while he turns her around and kneels behind her, kissing the whip scars on her back, the knobby bones of her trembling spine, the second tattoo that curves around her shoulder blade.

He takes her by the arm and spins her around again and there's something so innocent about the gesture that Emori can't help but smile and bend to meet him, blinking the tears from her eyes. “My turn,” she whispers, acutely aware that she is naked before him and he's still fully clothed, which isn't a great arrangement for several reasons. John's eyes are wide and dark, his breaths coming in short pants as she tugs his shirt up and over his head. His shoulders round forward and it hits Emori like a punch that  _ oh, he's afraid too. _

She knows that the word  _ beautiful  _ is thought to be more feminine than masculine to the  _ Skaikru _ but it's the only word Emori can think of as she takes in the spare lines of his collarbone, the curve of his lips, the rise and fall of his chest. He's looking up at her still, gaze open and trusting, one hand circling her left wrist, the other resting atop her right hand, which is fisted at her side.  “You're beautiful,” she whispers and feels his entire body shudder as if her words had sent the aftershock of some earthquake through his entire being.

He says something unintelligible and crashes their lips together, wrenching her hands from his grasp and placing them on his chest. “Touch me,” he whispers and Emori runs both hands over his torso, over his back, and down under his waistband, not even stopping when he lets out a shaky moan and only pausing to allow them both to stand and promptly fall back onto the couch. He hovers over her, kissing a line from her cheeks to her navel, nuzzling her skin with his nose affectionately as he goes. 

(Emori vaguely wonders if there’s anyone alive who knows this loving side of John. She decides that there probably isn't and she's selfishly glad of it.)

He taps her right hipbone with two fingers and Emori nods, letting out a tiny gasp when he kisses and nips at the sensitive skin before traveling to the other and moaning softly against her skin when she bucks her hips suddenly.

“John,” she whispers and he's there in an instant, his hips cradled in hers, his lips brushing her nose, her eyelids, her cheeks. She wraps her legs around his waist, gently pulling to her, and her heart swells to the breaking point at the sight of this worried loving boy in her arms who always wants consent before touching her and who kisses the places she despises just to prove a point. “I love you,” she hums, then gasps as he grinds his hips into hers.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, his head dropping to rest on her shoulder as he sucks in a breath. “Mori, I-”

She tangles her fingers in his hair, scraping her nails gently against his scalp. “We can stop,” she murmurs. He shakes his head, makes a petulant noise. “What is it?” Her heart is beating fast, too fast, and her skin is clammy and she  _ wants  _ but John is afraid or unsure or something else that's making his heart beat out of his chest and she wants to stop it so she waits and breathes.  “John?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.  I- you should feel loved and safe and happy and…” He lifts his head, looks up at her, and his eyes are anguished.  “What if I break this? I don’t know how to hold onto anything like this, to anything like you.”

She reaches up, weaving the fingers of her right hand through his.  It was strange how vulnerable this was, the two of them tangled together in various states of undress, unreachable distances in their eyes and between their bodies.  “John Murphy.” His full name rolls through her lips; she arches into him when he shudders at the sound of her voice.  “I’m not leaving you.  I chose you and I will always choose you.   _ Sha? _ ”

He smiles, a real smile, and then he kisses her slowly and deeply until she’s moaning shamelessly into his mouth and his hips are insistently circling into hers while she hooks her left fingers into his belt and doesn’t let go of his hand until they’re finished and wrapped up in one another, breathing in heartbeats and exhaling insecurities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering giving this story a little bit of a storyline but I'm not sure if that's a good idea. What do you think? Please feel free to let me know (and of course, reviews are always welcome and well-loved)!
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


	9. Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Was it a nightmare?” She asks, her voice quiet but not pitying, her voice understanding but not sorry. Despite his better judgement, he nods. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is small. “You can come in...if you want.”
> 
> Three steps later, he’s in her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the early stages of their cohabitation...
> 
> Inspired by something on Tumblr that read, "I would sleep better on your floor than I ever would in my bed."

It starts when he has a nightmare.

Normally he would pace the length of the bunker, going from kitchen to TV and back again until the skin around his neck stopped throbbing and the scars on his arms and stomach didn’t pull so badly but this was a particularly bad dream and he was tired of seeing ghosts so somehow he ends up standing in front of Emori’s door.

He’s no gentleman but he’s not an idiot either; he knows that Emori’s bedroom is private and that he should never open the door without permission but his head is aching and he can barely breathe and-

“John?” She swings the door open and he jumps back.  She leans forward slightly, left hand out of view, long hair sleep-mussed, brown eyes blurry and confused.  “What are you doing?  I heard a noise.”

All courage evaporates like water in the desert.  “Nothing,” he says and his voice shakes.  “Go back to sleep.”

“Was it a nightmare?” She asks, her voice quiet but not pitying, her voice understanding but not sorry.  Despite his better judgement, he nods.  “I’m sorry.” Her voice is small.  “You can come in...if you want.”

Three steps later, he’s in her room.  She’s perched on the bed, he’s shuffling his feet on the floor.  Her curious eyes watch him and it occurs to him somewhere in the post-nightmare haze that he doesn’t know if she minds having boys in her bedroom, if she’s ever even  _ had  _ a bedroom and he wants to ask her what keeps her up at night and why she sleeps so lightly that his nightmare woke her before it woke him.

But he doesn’t.  He sits on the floor near the foot of her bed. After she lies back, he does the same.  He pillows his head on his arm.  He closes his eyes and listens to her breathing.  If he cranes his neck, he can see the rise and fall of her stomach.  She sleeps on her back, her left arm tossed across her torso, her right hand lifted and tangled in her own hair.  It’s an odd position, a vulnerable one, and it makes Murphy want something nameless that he’s never wanted before.

She’s asleep within moments.  The door is still open.  Murphy doesn’t get up to close it.  He listens to the sound of her breathing - in for four counts, out for four counts - and tries to chase the remnants of dreams from the twisted, broken-up corners of his mind.

* * *

“What was it about?” She asks him the next morning, hanging her head off the bed so she can see him from his nest on the floor.  Sometime during the night, she must have covered him with a blanket because the warm black thing around his ankles wasn’t there before.

He’s confused for a moment, realizes her meaning, closes his eyes against the light in hers.  “You know,” his voice is sarcastic, trying for a light tone, “near-death experiences, betrayal, torture. The usual.”

Her eyes widen, her chin softens, and the fingers on her right hand twitch as if she wants to reach out and stroke his cheek.  He thinks he wouldn’t mind if that was the case and chides himself for caring.  “No one will hurt you here,” she says and it sticks like an oath under his ribs.

“You might. You have that big-ass knife, after all.” He smirks up at her and she grins, looking for all the world like a gleeful child with her hair falling haphazardly over the bed, her cheeks ruddy, her eyes laughing.

Murphy watches her, notices that he didn’t wake up exhausted for once, didn’t even question why.  He knows and he thinks he wouldn’t mind sleeping on her floor every night if he woke up to her questions and her smile.

* * *

 

(Little does he know that his presence made her feel safer.  Little does he know that she watched him sleep for a little while before curling up in the warm spaces of the early morning.  Little does he know that he calms her, grounds her, wakes her up faster than one of her chaotic early-morning runs.

She’ll never tell him but she hopes he knows anyway.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated and, as always, thank you so much for reading!


	10. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think we’ll stay here forever?” He asks, his arms wrapped around her waist, her hand on his chest.
> 
> Emori breathes a sigh, considering. The desert’s in her bones and the sky is in his blood but between the two of them, there isn’t a single place they can call home. Still, in his presence, she feels safe, safer than she’d ever felt in a long time.
> 
> “I don’t believe in forevers, John.” She smiles. “But I could live here, with you, for the rest of my years.”

Emori calls John outside because it looks as though the stars are falling.

It’s a meteor shower - at least, that’s what he calls it - and all Emori knows is that she feels infinitely tiny standing at the bunker’s door and watching great streaks of white light hurtle through the darkness of space, winking out behind clouds, vanishing before her eyes. John stands behind her and wraps his arms around her shoulders. She leans into his touch and smiles when he presses a kiss to the back of her head.

All that can be heard is their breathing and all there is to see is the wide smile on Emori’s face, the dance of light in the sky, and the rustle of tall grass in the breeze.

“Is this what it looked like to you when the Ark came down?” John asks quietly, his voice a whisper in her ear.

Emori shrugs. “It was bigger. Not as bright because the sun was out.” She had felt the ground shake when the Ark landed, had seen the sand quiver under her boots, had laughed when Otan’s horse spooked in response. She had climbed a sand dune and peered out over the trees, barely making out pieces of twisted metal rising just out of sight. They must have landed in the water, she had reasoned and hadn’t given it a second thought.

“I like the stars better from down here,” he says almost to himself. Emori wonders what it was like to be suspended among them, looking down at Earth.  “Earth is...  _ more _ , somehow.”

“More than what?” Above her, a supernova flashes.

“More than grey walls and matching floors and people you can never escape and judgements that never go away.” He really is quite eloquent when he’s frustrated, Emori notices.

“There are judgements here, though,” she replies, extending her left hand in the light of the moon.

John nuzzles the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Emori tries not to blush. “But there’s room to run from them.”

“I can’t escape what I am,” she murmurs.

John spins her around, his earnest eyes silhouetted by the rise of the bunker door and, beyond that, the sky. “I’m glad neither of us can.”

He kisses her softly, brushing his lips against hers and smiling when she lets out a small noise of pleasure. She keeps her eyes open, marveling at the way his long lashes brush his pale cheeks. If she could, she’d love to catch a star for him.

“Do you think we’ll stay here forever?” He asks, his arms wrapped around her waist, her hand on his chest.

Emori breathes a sigh, considering. The desert’s in her bones and the sky is in his blood but between the two of them, there isn’t a single place they can call home. Still, in his presence, she feels safe, safer than she’d ever felt in a long time.

“I don’t believe in forevers, John.” She smiles. “But I could live here, with you, for the rest of my years.”

A smile cracks across his face. It is brief, blinding, and so joyful Emori can’t look away. She’s the one to kiss him this time and he holds her close, like a precious secret.

Above them, the stars still rain down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not certain if/when I'm going to continue this little collection but hey, thanks for reading this, and I hope you liked it! As always, thank you for reading!


	11. Laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy loves Emori's laugh.

Murphy is not easily distractable but  _damn_ Emori's laugh gets him every time.

The first time she laughs - really laughs and in front of him - she's in the bedroom.  He comes in, hair askew and dripping from the storm outside, and his petulant expression is enough.  Of course, then she runs outside to see the rain for herself, leaving him stunned and shivering in the wake of her joy.

He never hears any sound coming from her mouth the same again.

Her laugh is low, deep in her throat, high when it passes her lips.  It rolls off the walls, leaves him breathless when it strikes him in the chest.  And oh, does it distract him, makes him walk into walls, nearly makes him nick himself on the knife he's sharpening.  She never knows; he never lets her see what it does to him for fear that she'll stop laughing altogether.  She treasures her invisibility and is certain she can keep it even though they're the only two people for miles.

But he sees her and he never stops wanting.

This is different than the other ways he wanted.  On the Ark he wanted safety and stability and a host of things he avoided naming.  At the dropship he wanted approval, to be useful, to be needed.  He's still coming to terms with his stasis, with the fact that Emori looks at him and chooses him every morning.  He's still learning to live out from underneath a shadow.

She delights in him and it terrifies him.  He comes home from the interior once, armed with meat and clothes he found in trade and theft, and the smile she gives him as she runs to him is enough to stop his heart.  "Next time, you're coming too," he tells her with her arms wrapped around his neck.  "I don't care if you're going to get caught; someone has to translate for me and this meat is heavy."

She laughs at his complaining, which was his goal, so he counts that as a success.

That night they curl up in bed.  She rests her head on his chest, feels his heartbeat just under the skin, and smiles up at him when he cards his fingers through her hair.  "Next time I'll come with you," she says.  "You could have gotten twice the haul with a partner."

Murphy lifts his head so she can see his face.  "I don't know.  Being your partner seems like a dangerous thing.  Do I have to ride a horse?"

She chuckles.  "No. But you also don't get punched in the face so I think it's a win-win."

He laughs and her expression makes him wonder if the reward goes both ways.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hi I'm back with more cheese and sappiness and God literally only knows what else. Hope you enjoyed!


	12. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "As op ai."  
> It's a game they play, a way for him to practice, a way for her to talk without fear.  
> Ask me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up part of Emori's origin story. There is a mention of rape so PLEASE BE AWARE.

She twirls her newly-sharpened knife between the fingers of her right hand, testing the metal against the pad of her thumb.  "Where'd you learn to sharpen a knife?"

"I saw a Grounder do it."  It was true - when he was held and tortured, he had watched the woman holding him sharpen her dagger by the fire.  He had focused on her face and hands to distract himself from the pain of bruises and cuts and aching joints.  She had been weary, her face sharp and lined with paranoia and anger.  "I pick up on things, you know."

She gives an almost-laugh; it stays in her throat.  He wishes it would come out.  He's not good at being touched yet but this is the next-best thing.  "I never said you didn't."

He leans forward, brushes his lips over hers.  "It was implied."

" _As op_ _ai._ " It's a game they play, a way for him to practice, a way for her to talk without fear.   _Ask me._

" _Chon..._ " He struggles, the words awkward on his tongue, the question burning but fearful.  " _Chon seingeda?_ "

She lets his errors slide with a rueful smile.  This is how they work.  He pushes, she pulls.  Sometimes it reverses but only when she's feeling generous.  "My family is dead.  Except Otan but who knows where he is."

"That's not what I asked," he presses.

She quirks an eyebrow at him.  " _Sha_.  So what do you want to know?"

"Who were they?"

" _Ain nomon_ was Azgedakru.   _Ain nontu_ was from  _Sanskavakru_.  He wasn't my real father but..."  Her lips twitch up, then down.  "A man, he..." She swallows.  "I wasn't supposed to happen.  It was..."

"Rape?" He supplies the word with an angry twist of his hand.

She nods.  " _N_ _omon_ got her revenge." She bares her teeth.  "A knife to the stomach where the womb should be."  She sighs.  "But I was here and with the stain. She was kicked out, came to the Dead Zone, and met Otan's  _nontu_."

"I knew he was too blond to be related to you," Murphy tries to tease.  She smirks at that, huffs out a laugh.

"We were  _fig au seingeda_.  A found family.  Like you and your dropship friends."

"Sounds nice."  Murphy doesn't bother correcting her with the facts.  She settles against the couch, stretching long, bare legs into the center of the room.  "You're not a mistake.  What happened to your mother sucked but you're not a mistake."

Emori leans her head against the couch, her throat bare and smooth.  Murphy can't take his eyes off her.  "I know."

Somehow, he doubts that's the truth.


	13. Forever

"365."

Murphy turns away from the kitchen counter, where he's scaling the fish Emori caught for dinner, and looks over his shoulder at Emori, who's staring at the marks etched on the wall.

"You counted them all?" He asks incredulously.

She nods. "A whole year."

He sets down the knife and crosses the room, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing a kiss to her shoulder. It's bare, but not intentionally; her oversize shirt keeps sliding down her arm, almost temptingly so. "Does it seem that long?" he wonders, pressing another kiss to her warm skin.

She lets out a soft sigh, tilting her head to the side, smiling when he kisses up her neck. "No," she murmurs, "I guess not."

She doesn't sound convinced. Murphy tugs at her shoulder until she turns to face him, then wraps his arms around her waist, smiling when her arms automatically twine around his neck. "Do you want to leave?" He asks her point-blank, mostly because he hates playing games, but also because subtlety is lost on her unless it's part of a con.

A soft frown creases the space between her brows. "I don't know." She looks up at him, brown eyes wide and trusting. There's a perpetual sadness behind them, some kind of nameless ache that he understands a little too well. "We can't stay here for the rest of our lives."

Murphy shrugs. "Why not? There's nothing stopping us."

There's always restlessness hiding beneath her strong skin. It's the energy that makes her a fast swimmer, a diligent hunter, a ruthless scavenger. And now it's that same stubbornness that widens her stance ever-so-slightly, purses her lips and toughens her voice. "I don't want to hide here forever."

Murphy hears himself laugh, though a strange numbness seeps through his bones.  _This is how it starts,_ says the voice in his head.  _This is how you lose her._

"Why not?" He's almost challenging her.

To his surprise, her lower lip starts to tremble. "You don't deserve this; you don't deserve being all alone with no one else just because I'm a stain." She sucks in a breath, quick and painful. "I made you an outcast. I think a year of that is enough."

"Mori, hold on." He tips her face up to his. "I was an outcast long before we hit the ground. You didn't have anything to do with that." He leans down to kiss her, just a peck on the lips, and she smiles despite herself. "This is the only place I have ever felt like I belonged," he says slowly and clearly. "I want to stay with you forever."

"That's a lot of three-sixty-fives," she murmurs against his mouth.

Murphy nods, kissing her again, slow and deep. "I'll take all that I can get, as long as it's with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet and hopefully not sucky.
> 
> At least for now, this will be the end of _The Bunker Diaries_. I can't promise I'll abandon this forever, but I wanted to close the book on it so I didn't have yet another WIP nagging at my conscience.  
>  Thank you to all of you who read this thing, left comments and kudos, and kept coming back for more. This was my first official foray into the Memori fandom and you guys made me want to stay (as evidenced by all the Memori fic I've churned out since). Love you bunches.


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